Journals
I found an old poetry journal of mine yesterday. I'd packed it away in a box FULL of old journals and drawings, and took it with me when I left almost everything else behind. I keep debating the merit of burning old journals, the idea being that you're letting go of the past. But then I re-read my thoughts from when I was young, and I'm glad I haven't done it yet. This journal is from my very early 20s, between 21-23. It's a huge, red, hardcover journal, something meant to last. The paper is ivory, and thick. I filled less than half of it with writing. But it's some of the best, most evocative writing I've ever done. It's almost all poems, mostly short, very Emily Dickinson. An example:
I am not potential
I am not possibility
I am not someday
I am not maybe
I am the here
I am the now
I am the present
I am the how
Reading these poems, I'm reminded of a time when I my life when I had gone from thinking to doing. I'd spend most of my late teenage years wallowing in self doubt, recrimination, and fear of change. A few of these poems reflect that fear. And many of them have the words chains, or rope, in them. Ironically, they also tend to make the chains and rope sensual... But most of the poems feel like an engine revving. My mind is made up, and I have hope again, after feeling hopeless for so long. I don't know yet exactly what I'm going to do, but I know I'm going to do something. I have felt that way so many times in my life, now. The sense of engines revving in my mind, my wheels are spinning and my juice is flowing and I am ready to GO. But I haven't pointed my nose in the right direction yet, so I wait. And in that waiting period is a lot of happiness, stress, and apparently good writing for me.
About halfway through the journal, I move to Portland. And suddenly my poems become longer, more free form, and mostly about others. Example:
I met a guy last night
In a cozy coffee den
He looked determined to be sad
Like all the other sensitive men
He sprawled across the couch
And held his loft book high
He laughed importantly to himself
Punctuating each movement with a sigh
But beneath his spurious pretension
I sense a sincerity
Only the lonely can listen
To others conversations so avidly
He made me rather sad
Seeing as I did his pain
So I gave him a perfect red leaf
And walked away into the rain
I am suddenly inundated with sensation and options, and I am so very excited. I experience things! So many things! And then I'm a little overwhelmed! So then I start writing a lot about science, and balance, and how to stay balanced in a crazy world. I weight myself down with seriousness, so I don't float away into fun. I write about how smart I'm being, how I won't get my heart broken because I won't let anyone in... And reading this part starts to make me sad. Because I can see the beginnings of trauma. I see the foundation of a house built alone, determinedly and rebelliously alone. I see lack of trust, in anyone. I see my new joy killed, self destructed, by my determination that I don't deserve to enjoy it. I want to connect to men, I want a relationship. But every crush I have is punctuated with a poem about how I'll never let them. Example:
I am the rock
Love is the sea
And fear is the child
That skips me
Skimming the surface
Never to sink
Never to drown
Never to drink
In my newfound freedom, I am beginning to discover just how fucked up I am. It was mostly hidden before, underneath layers of self hate and religious abuse. But as I peel those layers away, expecting to discover gold, I discover instead a pockmarked lunar surface. I don't have notion of how to exist in this world I threw myself into, I have no survival mechanisms or skills. And suddenly I am sad again. I start writing about life like I'm a child looking in at it through a window. I don't really understand why I'm sad, I mostly interpret it as loneliness, so I start so many letters to friends and family. I found at least 10 abortive letters. They all fade away after I start to make promises that I'm coming home. One of them literally stops in the middle of a sentence about how much I miss her. I found only one complete letter, to my sister. And it's a powerful letter. It explains why I did what I did, and I tell her how happy it's made me. I tell her I understand how sad it's made her, and why, but that I can't let her sadness affect me. And then I never send it. I tuck it away into the back pages of my journal instead.
And then, along comes Jake. And suddenly I'm having sex, and my poems change yet again. I am nothing but pure, cerebral sexuality. I am diving deeply into my psyche and coming back up gasping, triumphantly holding onto a nugget of truth. I write wonderingly about his beauty, his joy, and his skin. I'm still, of course, including the caveat that I don't deserve him. But I am happy again. I start drawing in my journal, sensual rolling things, hills that look like legs and breasts, shaded and mysterious. I also write about impermanence, knowing it won't last but being determine to enjoy the moment. It feels a little forced, but that may just be me looking back on it now and knowing how I felt then. I WANTED to feel love, so I did.
And then my journal ends, halfway through. Lots of beautiful blank pages just waiting to be filled. After that I started writing in smaller books, disposable notebooks that I bought for a dollar at the dollar store. I don't think I ever again wrote in an official journal. I wonder at the reason why, because I loved my hardbound books. I think I stopped wanting to keep my thoughts, stopped wanting to preserve them. I think I started becoming more ashamed of them, more fearful of them being found. Which is saying something, that I was MORE fearful as an independent adult than as a deeply controlled teenager.
But then I started writing in a blog, and I found my new medium. Safe, private, but available to those who look. I have been able to be completely honest in this format, and damn the consequences, a fact for which I am deeply grateful. This blog feels like my latter day hardbound red covered journal, full of honesty and searching. I don't know if I'll ever burn either.
I am not potential
I am not possibility
I am not someday
I am not maybe
I am the here
I am the now
I am the present
I am the how
Reading these poems, I'm reminded of a time when I my life when I had gone from thinking to doing. I'd spend most of my late teenage years wallowing in self doubt, recrimination, and fear of change. A few of these poems reflect that fear. And many of them have the words chains, or rope, in them. Ironically, they also tend to make the chains and rope sensual... But most of the poems feel like an engine revving. My mind is made up, and I have hope again, after feeling hopeless for so long. I don't know yet exactly what I'm going to do, but I know I'm going to do something. I have felt that way so many times in my life, now. The sense of engines revving in my mind, my wheels are spinning and my juice is flowing and I am ready to GO. But I haven't pointed my nose in the right direction yet, so I wait. And in that waiting period is a lot of happiness, stress, and apparently good writing for me.
About halfway through the journal, I move to Portland. And suddenly my poems become longer, more free form, and mostly about others. Example:
I met a guy last night
In a cozy coffee den
He looked determined to be sad
Like all the other sensitive men
He sprawled across the couch
And held his loft book high
He laughed importantly to himself
Punctuating each movement with a sigh
But beneath his spurious pretension
I sense a sincerity
Only the lonely can listen
To others conversations so avidly
He made me rather sad
Seeing as I did his pain
So I gave him a perfect red leaf
And walked away into the rain
I am suddenly inundated with sensation and options, and I am so very excited. I experience things! So many things! And then I'm a little overwhelmed! So then I start writing a lot about science, and balance, and how to stay balanced in a crazy world. I weight myself down with seriousness, so I don't float away into fun. I write about how smart I'm being, how I won't get my heart broken because I won't let anyone in... And reading this part starts to make me sad. Because I can see the beginnings of trauma. I see the foundation of a house built alone, determinedly and rebelliously alone. I see lack of trust, in anyone. I see my new joy killed, self destructed, by my determination that I don't deserve to enjoy it. I want to connect to men, I want a relationship. But every crush I have is punctuated with a poem about how I'll never let them. Example:
I am the rock
Love is the sea
And fear is the child
That skips me
Skimming the surface
Never to sink
Never to drown
Never to drink
In my newfound freedom, I am beginning to discover just how fucked up I am. It was mostly hidden before, underneath layers of self hate and religious abuse. But as I peel those layers away, expecting to discover gold, I discover instead a pockmarked lunar surface. I don't have notion of how to exist in this world I threw myself into, I have no survival mechanisms or skills. And suddenly I am sad again. I start writing about life like I'm a child looking in at it through a window. I don't really understand why I'm sad, I mostly interpret it as loneliness, so I start so many letters to friends and family. I found at least 10 abortive letters. They all fade away after I start to make promises that I'm coming home. One of them literally stops in the middle of a sentence about how much I miss her. I found only one complete letter, to my sister. And it's a powerful letter. It explains why I did what I did, and I tell her how happy it's made me. I tell her I understand how sad it's made her, and why, but that I can't let her sadness affect me. And then I never send it. I tuck it away into the back pages of my journal instead.
And then, along comes Jake. And suddenly I'm having sex, and my poems change yet again. I am nothing but pure, cerebral sexuality. I am diving deeply into my psyche and coming back up gasping, triumphantly holding onto a nugget of truth. I write wonderingly about his beauty, his joy, and his skin. I'm still, of course, including the caveat that I don't deserve him. But I am happy again. I start drawing in my journal, sensual rolling things, hills that look like legs and breasts, shaded and mysterious. I also write about impermanence, knowing it won't last but being determine to enjoy the moment. It feels a little forced, but that may just be me looking back on it now and knowing how I felt then. I WANTED to feel love, so I did.
And then my journal ends, halfway through. Lots of beautiful blank pages just waiting to be filled. After that I started writing in smaller books, disposable notebooks that I bought for a dollar at the dollar store. I don't think I ever again wrote in an official journal. I wonder at the reason why, because I loved my hardbound books. I think I stopped wanting to keep my thoughts, stopped wanting to preserve them. I think I started becoming more ashamed of them, more fearful of them being found. Which is saying something, that I was MORE fearful as an independent adult than as a deeply controlled teenager.
But then I started writing in a blog, and I found my new medium. Safe, private, but available to those who look. I have been able to be completely honest in this format, and damn the consequences, a fact for which I am deeply grateful. This blog feels like my latter day hardbound red covered journal, full of honesty and searching. I don't know if I'll ever burn either.
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